Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  Perhaps the angle caused it to rebound rather than chop into his skull. Perhaps the movement of Brann as he had looked up had made the difference. Perhaps he had unusually thick bone there. Konall did not care. And, this time, he did not hesitate. Pushing Brann’s head down with his left hand, feeling the slick wetness of the boy’s blood, he swung a savage blow which not only cut into the man’s thigh, but knocked his legs from under him. He leapt past Brann and, with a bellow of rage and relief, plunged his sword downwards with lethal effect.

  Brann had known something was wrong as Konall’s flippant thanks had died on his lips and his expression had frozen. He had not had time to react – and no knowledge of the form of danger to react to – and had merely seen a flash of movement as Konall had thrown his own blade forward. He guessed that Konall had saved him from further injury following the blow to his head, but before he could say anything to the boy, Konall had turned to face the increasingly frenzied mountain men whose panic had turned to the furious offence of cornered animals after they had been forced back enough to realise that they were caught between two forces.

  The blow had stunned Brann slightly, and that, added to the increasingly desperate ferocity of the mountain men, saw the battle, for him, descend into a hazy repetitious sequence of deflecting blows and striking out at the nearest exposed part of any man in front of him at any given moment. He even swung his sword, occasionally.

  The two groups of warriors and slaves had slowly converged, grounding the savage mountain men between them. The enemy’s main advantage – their savage and wild bloodlust – had worked well when they believed they had the upper hand and that slaughter was a formality. When the tide had turned, however, they had lost their one asset and, trapped between the vice of their opponents, their resistance had evaporated.

  The battle had descended into grim and methodical carnage as the wildmen were systematically butchered. Fury and disgust combined to create a passion for wiping out the savages and ensuring they would never be unleashed on anyone again. The warriors knew that there must be more of them in the mountains, and that destroying this band would not solve the problem. But, to these men, the wildmen before them had come to symbolise the horrors beyond human comprehension of which they had heard in gruesome tales from the few, the very few, survivors.

  And then, without warning, it was over.

  The small groups that most of the men had formed had become bigger as the noose of steel tightened around the mountain men, and as those intent on destroying them came closer to achieving that aim. Such was the intensity of the fighting, however, that the two halves of the combined forces of locals and slaves met, with no foe left between them, before they had realised just how close they had become.

  Brann felt like collapsing to the ground in exhaustion and relief at finding himself still alive, but noticed that the others were still upright and guessed that it was not a warrior-like course of action to follow. What little was left of his strength and, mainly determination, kept his knees from buckling as the boys found themselves faced by the nobles – the two small groups had merged but the youngsters, immersed in fighting for survival, had been oblivious to all around them unless it was a threat or a target.

  Lord Sigurr leant on a long, two-handed sword and smiled warmly. ‘I do not know who exactly to thank yet, but I suspect that the answer lies somewhere immediately before me. In any case, my deepest gratitude goes to all who risked their lives and, in some cases, gave them, to save ours.’

  ‘My gratitude also,’ beamed Lord Ragnarr, whose grin shone large in the midst of his beard. ‘For a while there, I did not think it was going to be as much fun as it turned out to be. My thanks for showing up, boys.’

  The words were becoming more distant to Brann with each passing sentence. His spinning head felt as if it had been pumped full of smoke – with more constantly being added – and his vision had darkened to a tunnel that was narrowing rapidly. However, he forced himself to remain erect, breathing deeply and – to his own ears – loudly as he gently swayed.

  ‘Einarr,’ Ragnarr called to the tall, black-clad figure who was directing a small group of warriors in pursuit of the last surviving wildmen – an equally small group who had managed to squeeze out of the battle on one flank as the two converging lines had closed in. ‘Your page looks exhausted. Do you not keep him fit enough for a little exercise like this?’ He turned to Brann. ‘At least you look like you got involved, little one. Is that your blood or theirs?’

  Brann tried to speak, but his words were slurred and unintelligible. Concerned, Konall took him by the arm to steady him. ‘Probably much of it is his, father. He took a sword blow to the head and the blade just bounced off. It was the strangest thing.’

  Ragnarr looked curiously at his son, who was full of concern for this small foreign boy. He grunted, ‘Many strange things happen in battle, some that cannot be explained in any way other than that the gods were not ready to receive a man in the next life at that time.’ He laughed, beamingly. ‘And he must have a damned hard skull, too!’

  Einarr strode up. Ragnarr nodded over at Brann, ‘You always had a knack for treating wounds, nephew,’ the bear-like noble said. ‘Perhaps you should take a look at your page’s head. He seems to think it is a good means of stopping a sword blow.’

  Einarr frowned as he caught sight of Brann. ‘Gods, he looks awful,’ he gasped, moving quickly to the boy. He smoothed back the blood-soaked hair to examine the wound. The sharp pain caused Brann to suck in his breath, but he felt that to complain would be ungrateful to the man who was trying to help him – and he did not, in any case, want to show any weakness in front of such hard men.

  ‘Give me some water. Quickly,’ Einarr snapped. The women who had been with the nobles’ party – and who had been protected by the relentless defence of the men around them – had joined them, and one immediately handed Einarr a canteen. He drenched the wound, clearing enough of the blood and grime to allow him to see the extent of the damage and forcing another hiss from Brann as he sharply inhaled.

  Einarr cursed as he saw the severity of the wound. ‘It has cut into the bone,’ he said, alarmed. ‘Even if the sword did not cut through to his shoulders, his skull should have, at least, been cracked. You should thank the gods for giving you such a thick head, boy.’ He knelt before Brann, taking his head between his hands and looking into the unresponsive eyes. The boy had smiled faintly at the last comment, but there was little other comprehension evident.

  Sigurr was standing behind his son. ‘He looks out on his feet. I have no idea how he is still standing.’

  ‘Yet he was still swinging his sword to the end,’ Konall pointed out. ‘I had to stop him when it was all over. He knew little of what was going on around him, but he kept going. He does not give up, that is for sure. Similar to when he went after Loku.’

  The older men looked at him sharply. ‘He went after Loku? You have much to tell us, Konall,’ his father growled.

  Konall nodded. ‘More than that. They fought. And he nearly killed him.’

  ‘It shows,’ Ragnarr grunted. ‘Look at the state of the poor lad.’

  Konall was still supporting Brann, who was aware of the noise of their words but not their meaning. ‘No, father,’ the blond boy said in a low voice. ‘Brann nearly killed Loku.’

  There was a stunned silence. Einarr gently stroked a strand of hair from Brann’s brow. ‘There seems to be more to this little one,’ he said quietly, ‘than we would have expected. Our Lady hinted at it in riddles, and it seems we are seeing a little of what she spoke.’ He pulled up each of Brann’s eyelids with his thumb and peered into his eyes. ‘Right now, however, he needs attention. And a lot of it.’

  Although he could not hear the words, Brann responded right on cue. Darkness swept softly over him like a welcoming quilt on a cold night, and his legs, at least, gave way. He did not feel Ragnarr’s arms catch him as he fell and carry him from the field. He did not hear the sobs of the women at th
e sight of the slight figure, made to seem all the more vulnerable and small in the grasp of the huge warrior. And he never heard the warlord’s snapped command: ‘Get that boy help. He has priority over all. And tell the healer that if he dies, he will join the boy in the afterworld.’

  Chapter 13

  Brann awoke in an atmosphere so idyllic that he assumed he was dead and in some dreamlike afterworld. Warm sunlight enveloped him and the bed beneath him was firm and comfortable. A damp and soothing cloth was stroking across his brow and the sound of it being dipped occasionally in water was heavenly in its ordinariness.

  His eyes, heavy, had to be forced open. They took a few moments to focus, but he felt as if there was no rush. As they cleared, his gaze found Valdis smiling gently as she wrung out the cloth. At the very least, he thought, this must be a dream. Feeling that there was no need, therefore, to keep his eyes open again, he let the lids sink back down.

  Valdis’s lilting tones drifted down to him. ‘That is good, keep them closed,’ she murmured. ‘The longer they think you are still asleep, the longer they will leave you alone.’

  He lay with his eyes closed, enjoying the soothing attention, while he adjusted to the contrast between the horror of the battlefield where he had lost consciousness and the dreamlike serenity of the room where he had reawakened.

  After several contented minutes, he began to feel guilty at lapping up the intimate care deceptively and, opening his eyes, he pushed himself up on his elbows.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I thought I was dreaming.’

  Valdis frowned coquettishly. ‘What sort of a greeting is that? Really, a girl sails all the way down here and she is not sure if the first words she hears from you are an insult or a compliment.’

  Brann’s face coloured. ‘A compliment. It was definitely a compliment,’ he stammered.

  ‘I know,’ Valdis smiled gently. ‘I am just teasing you.’

  Brann was a picture of relief. ‘Thank the gods for that. I have had enough of violence for a while.’

  ‘So I hear,’ Valdis said, fetching a towel from the other side of the room. ‘You are quite the little heroes, you, Konall and even my brother. You are the talk of the town you know.’

  Brann blushed once more. ‘I did not do much. I just tagged along with the other two.’

  The girl laughed. Brann sank back, closed his eyes, and wished he could listen to the sound for ever. ‘That is not what the other two are saying,’ she said. ‘And do not pretend you are not pleased to hear it. You cannot fool me, boy.’

  ‘Well, maybe I did a little,’ he admitted – then was jolted from his reverie by the bunched towel hitting him squarely in the face.

  ‘Come on, you,’ Valdis chided, her words following closely in the wake of the towel. ‘Get out of bed before they come looking for you. If they can do without you for a week, they can manage for a little longer.’

  ‘A week?’ Brann stopped in the act of pulling off an undershirt that he seemed to have acquired since losing consciousness. ‘What do you mean: a week?’

  Valdis patted his cheek affectionately. ‘Eight days, to be precise. You were slumbering for a while. You took quite a knock on the head, so it has taken you a while to recover.’

  He lifted a tentative hand to investigate, and found a bandage, but no pain. And no hair.

  His eyes widened. ‘I am bald! In the name of all the gods, I have gone bald!’

  Valdis smiled and placed a reassuring hand on his arm – which, in itself, partially made up for the loss of hair. ‘Do not worry, it did not fall out. It was just easier to work on the wound if they shaved your head. It is quite common with scalp wounds, and it always grows back.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘Well, almost always.’

  Brann looked alarmed. Highly alarmed. The girl continued before he could take her joke too seriously. ‘You were lucky, you know. The doctor here has worked a lifetime treating battle wounds, and he gets plenty of practice, believe me.’ Having seen the carefree glee with which Konall and Hakon had approached conflict, Brann believed her. ‘Anyway, I am assured that your wound will heal quickly, although it has taken a lot out of you. That was why you slept so long, that and the potions they gave you to aid the healing: they tend to knock you out a bit.’

  Brann felt around the most tender part of his head, where he guessed the wound must be. ‘I can only agree that he knows what he is doing if the lack of pain is anything to go by.’ He flexed his right arm. ‘I wish I could say the same for my arm. It does not half nip. It was all so frantic that I must not have noticed being wounded there also.’

  ‘Well, I would not say you were wounded, exactly,’ Valdis said, slightly coyly. ‘And not exactly during the battle.’

  ‘Not during it?’ Brann repeated, almost absently, as he lifted the wide neck of his shirt to peer down inside the sleeve.

  His eyes widened again, even more violently than before. ‘What is all of heaven and hell is that?’ he yelled.

  ‘That,’ Valdis said primly, ‘is an honour.’

  Brann tore off the shirt. Inked in black into his skin was a design stretching from his shoulder to his elbow, dominated by a mighty dragon and with a band bearing runic emblems encircling his arm.

  He stared at it in silence for a long moment. At last, he said, ‘How long does it last before it fades?’

  Valdis spoke quietly, and intently. ‘It lasts as long as you do. As I said, this is an honour, one of the greatest you could have been paid by my people.’

  Her tone conveyed the reverence she felt for the deep-rooted beliefs and traditions of her land, and Brann felt that to say any more would be seen as offensive. No matter the level of shock he was feeling, he could not bring himself to contemplate offending Valdis.

  ‘Can I wash it?’ he asked, moving to a bowl in the corner.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘In fact, it is recommended to prevent infection.’

  He splashed water over his arm, then his face, using the shock of its coldness to try to focus his thoughts away from their fixation on his arm. He stared into the water, watching the drips from his face ripple his bizarre-looking reflection.

  Eventually, he grinned. ‘So,’ he said, without looking up, ‘I am brought among your people, I try to help where I can, I take a thump on the head from the gods know what sort of a weapon, and what do I get in return? A bald head and a drawing on my arm. Is there anything else that has been done to me that I should know about?’

  Noticing his change of attitude, she smiled playfully. ‘Not yet, boy, not yet. But any more grumpiness like that and you may find you have a few more war wounds.’ She took the towel and gave his face a quick rub. ‘Now move it. Get a tunic on and we will get out of here. We are more likely to find peace for a little longer down in the garden, and there I will fill you in on what has been happening while you were lazing in bed.’

  She demurely turned her back as Brann pulled off his shirt and dived into a fresh tunic, then dragged him from the room, before he could don the warm cloak he had been in the act of grabbing. He did manage, however, to pull the cloak around him as the giggling girl led him at speed through the corridors and downstairs, darting between corners and peering around them in a way that reminded Brann vividly of passing, with Konall, along the trail through the ravine on their way to the wildmen’s village – and in a way that contrasted more than favourably with the first occasion.

  They reached the garden with much giggling and without incident. Brann found the laughter a welcome release from the tension of the previous few days that he could remember and, moreover, the childishness of their actions was a welcome change from the adult world he had been thrust into.

  The garden was more workmanlike than decorative, used for growing vegetables for the kitchens rather than pretty flowers or shrubs. Still, its high wall that provided shelter for the vegetables from the salt-laden sea winds also provided shelter for the young pair from prying eyes as they walked on narrow paths among the order
ly rows of carefully tended greenery.

  Valdis brought Brann up-to-date on the aftermath of the battle – it did not take her long as there was not a great deal to tell: none of the wildmen had survived; there had been casualties on their side, but none was serious among the noble hierarchy, thanks to the intervention of the reinforcements; the nobles had been closeted away while they discussed their next move; and Einarr had, as well as freeing the slaves, instructed his crew to overhaul his ship in readiness of returning to sea.

  Brann stopped abruptly in his stride. ‘Wait there,’ he said. ‘He freed the slaves?’

  Valdis shrugged. ‘He could hardly leave them as slaves after all that they did. Maybe other cultures would, but not here.’ Brann moved with her as she started walking again. ‘In any case, from what I overheard of a conversation between my father and Lord Ragnarr, Lord Einarr’s heart was never really in that business. It seems that he and his crew were forced into that line after “inheriting” their ship, and its rowers, from some pirates who sank his ship but lost their lives as a result of that misguided attack. They said that Lord Einarr’s ship had been of the normal type for our people – similar to the warlord’s that you saw on the way here – and was no match for it in a sea battle for the one he now has. So Lord Einarr and his men abandoned their ship as it sank, boarded the pirate vessel and disposed of the pirates. As their own cargo had sunk with the ship, they were forced into continuing the pirates’ slaving until they could raise funds to return to a more pleasant form of trade: it was either that or risk destitution and starvation for not only them, but for the rowing slaves that they had taken on also, and for whom they now also had responsibility. After all, they had lost everything, and could not even afford to free the rowers or, by the law of seafaring nations, they would then have had to pay the rowers, which would have been difficult since everything they had owned was now at the bottom of the sea. It was not feasible at first for them to pick up one type of cargo here and another there and so on, and since there were some slave boys gathered already in the hold, their only feasible option was to continue that trade, no matter how distasteful it may be for them, until they had enough money to both set themselves up in more acceptable business and take on the rowers as paid help.’